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A True Story: Lectures
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A True Story: Lectures |
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fractal007 Senior Member
since 2000-06-01
Posts 1958 |
A succinct and clear definition of popular Attrendian artistic trends from the forty-second century has been lacking. I believe that I would be the best person to rectify this problem. I shall start with an introduction to the concept through a door some of you may consider frightening, absurd, and familiar. That said, let us begin by looking down at the bottom latch on the sill. The window was closed, the reflection upon the surface of the glass obscuring my view of her face. Was that a tear or just something catching the wrong way in reflection? Looking back, knowing what I know now, I am forced to admit that her crying would have been a little overly dramatic given the circumstances. But there are other matters concerning which one might justifiably find occasion to shed a tear or two. I kept the book in my pocket, making sure my sweater crumpled a bit above my pantleg as I sat. Ultimately, I smuggled the book into my room without being discovered. I opened it again, this time to a random page in the middle, half expecting another message imploring Jonathan to stop writing in whatever way it was that displeased his mysterious and caring critic. Instead, when I looked upon the page, I saw only the fine black script, expressing a persons history in the writing "No, Steve, you can't give up now. You're progressing. Your apathy is growing stronger still." Steve placed a hand on the table, about to rise. You see, Steve was a rebellious teenager at heart, even though he consulted his father on everything related to growing up. He was a simple teenager. "You are a smart young man," Dad said, "You're a genius, you're growing stronger and stranger." "But people keep making fun of me!" Steve said. His left eye was beginning to well with tears. You see, Steve cried asymetrically (I learned that word yesterday. It means being lopsided or having things not start off at the same time), so when he began to cry the tears would chose one of his eyes first and then they'd get to the other. Anyway, Steve was starting to cry now. He realized that Dad's plan just wasn't working. He wasn't quoting the cool albums of today, he wasn't citing the classics of television, and he wasn't scared that you might be following suit, becoming another Steve Ottomat. You know who that is, don't you? Steve Ottomat is the guy who grew up in Fern Pond and killed himself because he'd argued himself out of Christianity by defending himself from sex. How do you know you won't become like that too, considering in simple terms the workings of a computer. Essentially, when one sits in front of one's computer there are countless things happening inside of it. You may think that these are taking place all at the same time. For example, you might think that the computer is taking in your keystrokes as you type your email, while at the same time checking itself for viruses. That is not the case. Rather, the computer can do only one thing at a time. So, it runs a piece of one program, then a piece of another, and so on. Just as you schedule parts of projects during your busy day, so the computer schedules parts of the programs it must run. Now that we have gotten that metaphor out of the way (you shall see why I refer to it as such in a moment) let us consider the Attrendian aesthetic of psycho-topological writing. Ah, you say, but what is psycho-topology? All of that will come in good time. I do not wish to overwhelm you in your first sitting. In simple terms, there was a movement afoot in the forty-second century which held that a story was not a single coherent narrative, but multiple narratives of his finely trained hand. At first glancce, I was tempted to think this diary was an artefact from some time ago. But when I looked at the date of the entry I happened to be reading I was quickly proven wrong: May seventh, 2006. This book had been written only five years before. I read the first line of the entry. It read Keep in mind that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I don't think you're suicidal, but I do know from watching television and being exposed to enough pop psychology, that people like you can tend to drift toward it. I just want you to know that I care for you and that you can't keep writing things like this. I'm worried too that this letter is just another rambling to you. I remember the letters we used to write to one another, maturing the way he hoped he would. Instead, the kids around him laughed at him. One time, when he was sitting in social studies class, someone threw a blob of clay at him, and so he stood up at his desk and screamed, "It's too bad you guys can't stick it to the man!" By this, of course, he meant that they could not mock conformity. Actually, he didn't mean that at all. Dad did, when he told him to say it the next time the kids threw stuff at him. Steve just followed Dad's instructions. Like I said before, it was all Pavlovian. "Dude!" said the kid who'd thrown the last volley of clay, "We already are!" Indeed, there was a bit of clay now stuck on Steve's white shirt. Steve longed now for the days of innocence, when he didn't know that there was no authenticity in the attacks of others. But Steve just had to have things his way, I guess. So he asked Dad for help. Dad liked it that way. It made it so that he could mold Steve to be the guy he'd always wanted to be. He wanted him to be a free thinker. He wanted him to be the guy who wrote piles of books that each focused upon the single core of the story. In this way, one might see several stories, all distinct from one another, fighting for a place on the page. The author flickered from one story to the next. But why, you might ask, would a writer pursue such a drastic and indeed seemingly schizophrenic style of writing? The answer was simply this. One narrative, it was thought, could not encompass all of the facets of the subject the writer wished to address. Furthermore, it was so foolishly improbable that in a world of billions the few characters in the author's story would somehow come together and live out a single narrative. |
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Clang Member
since 2005-12-15
Posts 222 |
Your submissions in this True Story category are very unique. With the changes in color I expect a smooth transition to a new and complete thought, but that isn't what takes place. It's like the garbled way our thoughts can behave internally. We can be thinking about two or more things at once and at times they can seem to mesh with each other. Complete conclusion to a thought also does not occur because the next thought is vying for attention. I like how you wrote that because that's how I interpreted it. There seems to be a voice of acceptance speaking to Steve in this piece. The Dad seems to also overcome his faulty traits as a parent and to demonstrate a true desire for what's best for his son at heart. I think all children desire the acceptance and encouragement...not to mention direction...from their parents. Relationships and our internal thinking patterns, at best, are a confusing and jumbled mess. It just brought that thought to mind. Even if Steve did grow to be a free thinker, I still think he would always desire to have his father's permission and blessing for the big choices he could make in life. That might be something you could add or portray. These are just the things this piece of prose makes me think of. |
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jo_kritickisto Junior Member
since 2006-08-17
Posts 15 |
Hm.. Unique? Perhaps. I enjoyed the addition of the explanation as one of the stories to flicker into and out of as the bit about the "Attrendian aesthetic" does. However, I think that you lose your readers by adding esotericism like that. I have no clue what or who Attrendia is, only that you seem to know a great deal about it. Perhaps you could elaborate on it a little? |
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